


The Light at the End of the Tunnel is a Dragon

by featherloom



Series: Followers on the Road to Gondolin [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherloom/pseuds/featherloom
Summary: Voronwë, in his quest to serve his friend Tuor's family, finds himself in the least likely place - and sharing the least likely company - at the beginning of the end for Beleriand.





	1. Chapter 1

The wind gust sliced at Voronwë, clean through his red coat right down to the gooseflesh on his skin. It reminded him of days spent on the run with Tuor on their way to Gondolin, days spent dodging orcs and worse in knee-deep snow. If he focused on the vise-like grip of the chill, he could almost imagine he was still in the wilderness. He allowed himself the small moment of comfort. The vast plains of East Beleriand sprawled out underneath the gray skies, covered in a pasty ruin of ash and snow. Here and there a worker poked through what was left of the fields or a soldier staggered out of their tent. It was early yet. Far in the distance, the mountain of Ramdal soared, losing its peak in the heavy clouds. The Andram marched on west, and for a moment Voronwë imagined himself taking a horse and riding for those hills, not stopping until he reached the Sea.

Maglor and Maedhros had both reminded him, repeatedly and rather testily, that he was no prisoner. He could walk away at any time, with any horse or supplies he desired, and none would stop him. He had never seriously considered the offer.

At the sound of a tiny whimper, Voronwë snapped the shutters closed as quietly as he could manage. He tip-toed towards the fire to pile on more kindling, stealing a small glance at his charges as he slipped by. Elros stirred, his brown curls spreading out across his pillow like a halo, or perhaps a pit. A healing bruise on the child’s forearm was a souvenir from his latest escapade, involving an attempt to ride a pony without using his hands so he could fight like his foster father. Elrond slept as still as he always did, a tiny harp nestled against his chest. He dreamed often, and sometimes described his dreams to Voronwë. He imagined a star sailing across the sea on swan’s wings. Voronwë thought that the boy’s father and grandfather would have enjoyed the dream and mourned that they would never hear it.

“ _Hanno_?” Elros yawned as he struggled out of his blankets. “ _Hanno_ , I’m thirsty.”

Voronwë schooled his face into a pleasant smile and looked over his shoulder. Elros was growing faster than Elrond, and his nightshirt already seemed a little small for him as he threw off his blankets, began shivering, thought better of it, and burrowed himself in again.

“If I bring you more water, you’ll need the chamber pot again. You can wait another hour or two.”

Elros grumbled, but Voronwë could hear him snoring under his blankets almost instantly. The twins had called Voronwë “brother” since they had been old enough to talk, even though he was four times the age of their father. They had kept the name after moving to Amon Ereb, although the Fëanorian brothers had insisted on using the Quenya variation.

_“The Sindarin king is dead, and his realm gone,” Maedhros offers in a monotone. “I see no reason to keep his commands in our house.”_

_Maedhros’s eyes spark, despite his flat voice, daring Voronwë or Annaiel, the twins’ nursemaid, to voice the obvious reply: “His realm is gone because you murdered everyone in it.”_

There was no sense in jeopardizing their place at the twins’ side, nor was it useful pointing out that the twins were made to learn only Quenya while the Fëanorians kept their Sindarin names and spoke Sindarin outside the citadel. The Gondolindrim held their tongues.

The brothers had long since stopped trying to bait Annaiel. Maidservant to Idril at the founding of Gondolin, she was a sweet-natured soul who thrived in the shadows, the quiet places where servants worked and lived. She wholly dedicated herself to the children and endured insults with a tearful patience the surviving sons of Fëanor found pathetic, so they let her be. Her rebellions were small and subtle, like creating a sign language for the twins to keep up their Sindarin. They only spoke it when she was dressing them in the morning and putting them to bed.

***

That had been the only real reason the two elves had been allowed to remain with the twins. The brothers were happy to teach the children to ride and fight and read and sing, but Voronwë and Annaiel hovered in the margins, taking care of the stickier and more unpleasant aspects of child-rearing. Maedhros and Maglor spoke to the pair as though they were servants, and the children followed suit.

_“Elrond called Maglor ‘father’ this evening,” Annaiel whispers to Voronwë after their first week at Amon Ereb. “Father! What are we to do?”_

_“At the moment, nothing,” Voronwë replies as evenly as he can manage, rubbing his face. The flames blur in the fireplace as his vision swims, and he blinks away the exhaustion. “It does no one any good if the twins hate their captors. Truly, it’s better if they grow to love them. It’s their best chance to survive. They’re little better than hostages, otherwise, and hostages have limited usefulness.”_

_Annaiel nods, humming in agreement. “And then, Voronwë, what happens to us?”_

_Voronwë shudders. “We throw ourselves upon the mercy of our hosts.”_

_“Do you ever wish you had sailed West with Tuor and Idril?”_

_“I could ask the same of you.”_

_Annaiel tuts. “Elwing needed me. Barely grown, and she’d just lost everything. I couldn’t leave.”_

_“Eärendil was only a little older,” Voronwë counters._

Annaiel had said nothing, and Voronwë had been grateful. He’d been intending to stay with Tuor as he sailed for Valinor, truly, but the night before he’d suffered dreams of nightmare islands and vicious monsters and parched weeks adrift under the unforgiving sky. He took it as a sign that his presence would doom any voyage and told Tuor as much. Tuor’s acceptance of that excuse had been the last great kindness he had offered his faithful guide. In truth, he had refused to set foot on Tuor’s swan-like boat because the sea filled him up to his throat with fear. Even now, far to the east, surrounded by wasted plains, he thought he could smell salt, and it made his stomach turn.

***

After he’d finished draping another blanket over Elros, Voronwë gently lifted the small harp from Elrond’s grasp. A sharp rap at the door nearly made him drop it.

Annaiel burst from her chamber as silently as she could manage, pulling her cloak close about her shoulders. When she unbolted the door, the flickering orange light of a torch cascaded down the sharp angles of her face.

“The children are asleep,” she murmured.

“Good,” a deep voice replied. “His Highnesses Prince Maedhros and Prince Maglor demand an audience with the Last Mariner.”

Voronwë couldn’t help but sneer at the title, and barely managed to set the harp down on a bedside table before clenching his fists at his sides. Annaiel glanced over at him with worry. His last audience with the brothers hadn’t gone well.

“Why do you stay?” Maedhros asks him, genuinely curious as he pours more wine into Voronwë’s cup. “I’m sure you’d prefer to be elsewhere.”

_“I swore to serve the house of Tuor, and his grandchildren need me,” Voronwë replies._

_“Do you doubt our love for them?” Maglor demands, the sadness in his voice suffocating. Voronwë hunches his shoulders, guarding himself against Maglor’s magic. Even unbidden, it spills out like an overflowing ink well, staining everything. It feels like a funeral shroud has been pulled taut over his face, wet with tears, and Voronwë clears his throat to dismiss it._

_“I do not doubt it,” Voronwë replies, and means it. He thinks Maglor does believe he loves the twins. He always speaks to them with tenderness. Maedhros seems to be humoring his brother, but he is no less involved in their care. Voronwë swallows another gulp of wine and, with boldness brought on by drink, adds: “Yet I feel as though I should stay, nonetheless. You also loved the Princes Amrod and Amras.”_

_Maedhros slaps him so hard he tastes blood in his mouth, metal mixing with the sweet wine. The red-head towers over Voronwë, dragging him up by his collar as the sailor’s boots scrabble over the heated stone floor. Maglor says nothing, but hums in a way that makes Voronwë’s teeth ache._

_“Do not mention them again,” Maedhros hisses against his ear. Voronwë can feel the prince’s scars against the smooth flesh of his cheek, pulling at his skin. He summons just enough will to nod through the stars exploding in his eyes. He leaves without being told, cradling his mouth and feeling fortunate._

Voronwë met Annaiel’s gaze and nodded, picking up his cloak as he met the guard at the door. “I am happy to serve,” he said curtly, and the guard frowned at his tone before nodding in the direction of the shadowy hall. The click of a deadbolt echoed around them as Annaiel slid the lock into place. Voronwë steeled himself and followed the guard into the darkness.

***

“Things ended badly between us when last you were here,” Maglor said as he pours some ale, voice as smooth as silk. They’d built up the fire, and the room was so warm Voronwë began sweating the moment he entered, although he was reluctant to shed his cloak. Maedhros, hovering by the fire, ignored him, arms crossed, the stump of his wrist hidden beneath the crook of his elbow. His hair, the color of fresh blood, cascaded in waves down his back. He tossed his head to keep it from spilling into his face, although he disguised it as a disgruntled shoulder roll.

“I did not mean to offend,” Voronwë said hesitantly. “The twins are like family, that’s all.”

Maglor laughed, making the candles in the room dance with delight. “How wonderful it is to know you lie so well.” Voronwë grimaced, but Maglor waved his irritation away. “We know very well what you were implying and, to be honest, you are not entirely wrong.” Maedhros growled from the fireplace, and Maglor ignored him. “We are cursed and tend to break what surrounds us. It’s reassuring to have a … backup plan. When we are inevitably called away to war, you will take the children to a place of our choosing.”

“Not to their home?” Voronwë asked, gripping the cup of ale tightly in his hands.

“Their ‘home’ was woefully unprotected,” Maedhros snapped from the fireplace, giving up and raking his hair back with his remaining hand. Two tapestries, blooming with red and blue lilies, framed the massive chimney, the star of Fëanor’s house bursting from the centers, glowing white like the Sun’s glare at noon. Voronwë found them difficult to look at directly, but it was better than looking at Maedhros. Voronwë felt he might leap at the prince’s throat if he made eye contact.

“It was a refugee camp,” Voronwë snarled. Maglor turned to glare at his brother as Maedhros rounded on them both.

“Do you think that would have stopped Morgoth?” Maedhros growled. “You would be slaughtered on the floor of their nursery now if it had been his orcs instead of us! Or laboring in the pits below Angband!”

With effort, Voronwë swallowed his reply. It did no good to argue with Maedhros here. He had no desire to see the elf’s madness a third time.

“This is not why we brought Voronwë here, brother,” Maglor said, tugging Maedhros’ sleeve gently.

“You want me to tell a story,” Voronwë guessed.

“I want you to tell us a story,” Maglor said with a smile, indicating the platters of food spread out on the table before them. “Eat something while you do. You look half-starved. Do the plains not agree with you?”

Voronwë grimaced, making a mental list of all the things here that didn’t agree with him, but said instead: “I do enjoy being this far from the sea,” hoping that might excuse him from telling a story about his sailing days. Maglor loves those tales, nearly as much as Voronwë hates telling them.

“Then tell us something from the fall of Gondolin,” Maglor urged. “My song still has gaps in it, and I wish to do right by your people.”

Voronwë set his teeth and closed his eyes, swallowing a retort that the brothers already had a chance to do right by his people, and now their corpses littered the Mouths of Sirion. Sucking in a breath, he reminded himself that this was Maglor attempting to make amends, that Tuor’s family rested in his hands and he could not afford to antagonize the Fëanor’s sons. “I will tell you a story. Give me a moment to think of one I remember well.”

Satisfied, Maglor relaxed back into his chair, and Voronwë reached for a roll, buttering it just to have something to do with his hands. He knew the story he wanted to tell, but he dared not give it voice.

***

_Thoroncel, guard and manservant of the House of the Wing, hangs heavily between Tuor and Voronwë, his breath coming in shorter, shallower gasps. The bruise on his neck where something stuck him is swelling, and the whites of his eyes are turning a brilliant yellow. Idril is not with him to conjure a healing spell, having stayed with the survivors on the outskirts of Doriath in case her magic was needed to defend the bare three hundred survivors from the siege of Gondolin._

_Doriath is not at all how the legends described it. The trees block out the Sun, and twisting yew branches sway in unseen winds, attempting to shove the three travelers off the paths. White roses, fireflies, and will o’ the wisps flit in and out of the corners of their eyes, and cobwebs choke the forest into a thick silence, the kind that goads the ears into casting further and further abroad. At odd intervals, a chatter or a click would crack through their skulls, rendering the travelers momentarily deaf. There were deer and squirrels and butterflies still in the wood, but they skulked in the shadows, lost in the dark._

_Voronwë releases a long breath as the trees open up before him, a stone gate covered in wilting trumpet vines guarding the entrance to a meadow littered with blood-red flowers. When they stumble into the clearing, the sky is blue and bright but mottled, as if they’re seeing it through a sheen of oil. The remains of a failed protection spell. The meadow is littered with dead nightingales._

_Thoroncel collapses the moment the sunlight hits him, and Voronwë and Tuor buckle along with him, gently laying him in the dry grass. “Are we here?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Is someone here?”_

_“We’re here,” Tuor replies, taking one of his hands in both of his. “You’ll have help soon.” Thoroncel doesn’t speak again._

_Tuor and Voronwë pick their way past rubble at the gaping maw of Menegroth. No torches are lit, so the caverns descend into pitch black. Even if they had a lantern, the smell is a physical wall, all old blood and mildew and rotting meat. The protection spell has slowed the decay, preserving the carnage for longer than nature might otherwise allow. A few bodies can be seen just at the bottom of the grand staircase, and Tuor and Voronwë can just make out the livery of Dior’s house – as well as the stars of the house of Fëanor. Voronwë’s legs collapse beneath him. He feels as though he might be sick._

_“They killed them all,” he whispers. “They’ve killed them all. They did Morgoth’s work for him, the bastards.”_

_Tuor puts his hands on his shoulders, but Voronwë can feel him trembling, too. “It doesn’t feel right, just leaving them here without a tomb,” the man says._

_“Menegroth is their tomb,” Voronwë replies, rousing himself and turning away. “Doriath will be no help to us. We should make our way to Cirdan.”_

_Tuor is shaking with fury. “This was my family’s doing.”_

_Voronwë frowns at him. “It was the doing of the sons of Fëanor.”_

_Tuor shakes his head. “If we had left earlier . . .”_

_Voronwë tugs at his hand, pulling him away from Thingol’s halls. “We would have died here as well.”_

_On their way back to the path, they pass a weeping willow, still green, yellow only staining the very tips of its swaying branches. Tuor stops and turns to look at Voronwë, a wistful smile on his face. “Didn’t you always say you wanted to die beneath a willow tree?”_

_Voronwë stares at the man as though he’s grown another head. “When I first washed ashore, yes.”_

_Tuor squeezes the elf’s hand while raking his left across his eyes. “I wanted you to know – you don’t have to stay here for my sake. Elemmakil . . . if you wish to return to him – if you need to go – I release you to do so. If you wish it,” Tuor continues, barely choking the words out, “you can go.”_

_Elemmakil. Voronwë had been very carefully not thinking about him for weeks now. When he returned to Sirion, he had told himself, he would think of him every day. The last time he’d seen him, at the entrance of the hidden tunnel out of Gondolin, his eyes had been aglow with purpose, his sword black with the blood of a dragon as a second one approached. He’d been kissing him until Elemmakil pushed him away, reminded him of his duty to his people. Elemmakil had looked every bit as much a legend as High King Fingolfin in that moment. Voronwë smiles up at Tuor, unashamed of the tears on his face. He’s never been afraid to cry in front of Tuor._

_“I will see Elemmakil again,” he says, and he can feel the ring of prophecy in his words. “I imagine there are plenty of willows west of the Great Sea. To elves, a few decades are but a passing moment.”_

_Tuor snorts. “Are you telling me to die faster?”_

_Voronwë can’t quite bring himself to laugh, but he does smile. “I am telling you not to worry about me running off to become a patch of flowers.”_

_They bury Thoroncel in the meadow and make their way back through the forest, ignoring the whispers and cries from the darkness. Tuor tells Voronwë he keeps hearing two children, lost in the woods, but the elf, try as he might, can never hear anything beyond the whispering of the wind and the howls of wolves. It is not until Idril and her people arrive at Sirion that they discover who it was Tuor heard. It takes another two weeks for Idril to convince Tuor that Dior’s sons were already dead._

***

The story of his exploration of Doriath was the one Voronwë wanted to tell the brothers. A small, hateful part of him wanted to twist the knife, but he held himself back. This, he told himself, was the Doom of Mandos at work, the anger and fear and bitterness that divided the Noldor trying to tear its talons into him as well. He hoped that Mandos was a better host to Elemmakil. He felt skittering on his cheek and was surprised to find himself crying.

Maglor leaned forward, face clouded with concern. “Are you well?”

Voronwë shook himself and nodded. “I was only remembering. Would you like to hear the story of the fall of Gothmog? Ecthelion slew him in single combat, although he himself was slain.”

Maedhros perked up at that, moving towards the table to settle himself on the arm of a massive chair, faking disinterest as he gazed out at the thin sliver of gray sky visible through an arrow slit. Voronwë didn’t know how they managed with so little light. The twins’ windows were the largest in the entire castle, a featureless black block planted on the center of the hill, and they were barely big enough for a cat to squeeze through. A good thing, too, or Voronwë would worry about Elros escaping.

He took another breath. “Morgoth’s forces had breached the inner courtyard, and only the Castle Guard had been called to arms – "

Maedhros sprung up from his chair with such speed he knocked it backwards. It rocketed into the bedframe behind it, sending splinters flying. Maglor spun to look out the window and his goblet dropped from his nerveless fingers, ale pooling at his feet.

Voronwë shrunk back in his seat, wondering what in Arda he had said to merit that reaction, when a piercing light seared the corner of his eye. Wincing, he shielded his face with his fingers and peered through them at the arrow slit. High up in the sky, bursting through the clouds like a second Sun, a lone star had ignited against the snow-gray sky. Voronwë had only seen it a few times before, when Elwing had removed it from its pouch. The jewel Menegroth had died for. A silmaril.


	2. Heading West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voronwë plans a quest to discover the origins of the silmaril in the sky, but finds himself waylaid by his hosts.

“What does it mean?” Annaiel whispered into the glittering night. Snow had fallen for several hours, and despite the churning mass of servants excavating a path out from the main gate, neither she nor Voronwë could hear a sound. The downy flakes had settled into a carpet that snatched noise from the air and smothered the citadel of Amon Ereb in silence. Despite the lack of the Moon, the fields blazed with the silver light of the silmaril, so bright the elves could see the very edges of shadowy Doriath on the horizon, in stark relief against the luminous snow. The dark citadel was a stubborn coal in a vast, white-hot cauldron. Voronwë wondered if hurt the Fëanorians to gaze upon it.

“I’m not sure what it means,” Voronwë murmured in reply, cautious of waking their charges. “Perhaps the Lady Elwing survived?”

“How could she have?” Annaiel said with a broken scoff. “She fell –“ Annaiel turned quickly to make sure both Elros and Elrond were asleep and then turned back to Voronwë, voice even softer. “She fell from a great height directly into the Sea. So the survivors all claimed.”

Voronwë imagined himself struggling in an unseen grip, pulled toward shore so fast the seafoam burned as it lashed his face. He could see himself, in a distant sort of way, as the ocean hurled his body onto the shore with enough force to dislocate his shoulder. Voronwë shivered. “If the Sea wills it, there are ways to survive.”

Annaiel grimaced and put a delicate hand on his arm. “Perhaps Cirdan knows?” she ventured. “Ever the Lord of Waters seemed to hold him in high regard.”

Voronwë nodded. “Perhaps. Don’t hold out hope for a missive, however. Cirdan would rather drown than tell the sons of Fëanor anything.”

Annaiel paused, resting her elbows on the windowsill and winding her fingers through the fringe of her shawl. “He might tell another who has found favor with Ulmo,” she finally said, nervously eyeing her companion.

Voronwë set his jaw and tightened his grip on the stone beneath his hands. “I would hardly call myself a favorite of Ulmo’s.”

“Yet he saved you from certain death,” Annaiel argued. “He chose you to guide Lord Tuor to Gondolin.”

“That was because of Elemmakil,” Voronwë spat. He’d thought about this for a long time, the puzzle of why he of all the surviving sailors had been chosen. Elemmakil was a dedicated and exemplary guard. After the debacle that was Eol’s passage into the Hidden City, Elemmakil was likely to strike down anyone who dared try to enter the tunnel in the Encircling Mountains. Anyone, that is, except Voronwë. Elemmakil’s affection had saved him from Ulmo’s wrath long before he knew of it.

“Of course it was because of Elemmakil,” Annaiel agreed. “You could be a little grateful for the opportunity you had to spend a handful of happy years with him. That’s more than most of the accursed Noldor can claim.”

“It’s hard to be grateful when I remember all of the sailors Ulmo happily murdered,” Voronwë growled, but subsided when Annaiel’s hand returned to his arm.

“Regardless of your feelings about Ulmo, you cannot deny that Cirdan’s people believe you found favor with the Vala, just as they believed of Tuor and Eärendil. If you ask Cirdan for tidings, he will tell you.” She squeezed his arm. “The children deserve to know if their mother survived.”

Guilt squeezed Voronwë’s stomach. Annaiel was right, of course. Elrond and Elros both deserved to know if one, or both, of their parents lived. Cirdan probably _did_ know. Ulmo gossiped like a scullery maid around Cirdan, even if half of what he said were riddles. Even if Cirdan didn’t know, he could probably go down to the docks and ask. Voronwë wondered how that worked. Did Cirdan bury his face in the Sea? Did Ulmo write words in the sand between waves, with Cirdan furiously scribbling in a notepad to catch the entire conversation? He bit back a laugh at the thought.

Voronwë let out a slow breath to steady himself. “I’ll go,” he said, finally. “I’ll go if our Lords give me leave.”

“Maedhros keeps telling us we’re not prisoners.”

“Maedhros can walk right off a parapet for all I care,” Voronwë said. “Those weren’t the Lords I was speaking of.”

“Ah,” Annaiel replied, casting a glance back at the sleeping children. “Though you might want to tell our hosts you’re leaving anyway. I fear they won’t let you back in the gates upon your return.”

“They’ll let me back in the gates,” Voronwë said. “If Elwing survived and the silmaril is now in the sky, someone made it to Valinor.”

Annaiel gasped. “Do you think help is coming? Are we saved at last?”

Voronwë slumped, letting his chin rest on his arms. “I am not sure that we and the Valar have the same definition of ‘help,’” he murmured. “Either way, Cirdan will know, and Maedhros and Maglor cannot ignore their curiosity.”

Annaiel gave his arm one last squeeze before letting her own chin rest on her fists. “You were well-named,” she said, turning her attention back to the western sky. Voronwë rolled his eyes. 

***

“You’re going?” Elros asked again, clutching his battered toy shield in both hands. His fingers were beginning to lose their chubbiness. “How long will you be gone?” Elros pressed. “Who will dress us? Are you going to be bringing us anything back?”

“Are Papa and Prince Maedhros making you leave?” Elrond asked, voice trembling.

Voronwë ticked off his answers on the fingers of his right hand. “Yes, I’m going as soon as the snows melt, so in another month. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, but it shouldn’t be more than a fortnight. You’re old enough now to dress yourselves. And yes, I’ll be bringing back some important news.” He paused, considering. “But I’ll bring you back some seashells as well, if you’ve been good. No, Lord Elrond, no one is making me leave, but it’s important that I do. Any other burning questions?”

“How will you know we’ve been good?” Elros asked suspiciously.

“I’ll know,” Voronwë answered with finality.

“Is this about the ship made of stars?” Elrond wondered. “The one from my dream?”

“I suppose it is, yes,” Voronwë answered. “There’s a new star in the sky. We need to know where it came from, and what it means. Your foster fathers can’t ask, so I will do it in their stead.”

“Can they not ask because they hurt people?” Elrond asked.

“That’s right. They can’t ask because they hurt people,” Voronwë replied. The twins, as far as he could tell, didn’t remember much about the Kinslaying at Sirion, thank Varda, but they remembered that important truth, at least. The sons of Fëanor were killers. Forgetting that had been the death of their people.

“Won’t there be monsters and bandits who can hurt you?” Elros demanded. “You should take us with you, so we can protect you!”

Voronwë’s “You’re a little too small for that” collided with Annaiel’s “No one is going to hurt Voronwë,” and the pair subsided into awkward silence.

“If we ask Papa, he’ll send some guards with you,” Elrond insisted. “I’m sure he will. Papa says it’s dangerous to go alone out in the wilderness.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Voronwë said, putting a gentle hand on Elrond’s small shoulder. “Regardless, I can handle myself. I’ve fought dragons and balrogs, remember? Those are monsters that are worse, as they are on fire.”

“Is it because they hit you?” Elros asked, hugging his shield to his chest with one arm as he searched his blankets for his wooden sword with the other.

“Beg pardon?” Voronwë spluttered.

“Do you not want the guards to go with you because they hit you?”

Voronwë remained frozen and flummoxed on the edge of Elrond’s bed until Annaiel lifted a pale hand to her cheek, nodding at him. After Maedhros had struck him, an ugly bruise formed on his jaw, swollen and tender with the force of the Noldo’s blow. Annaiel had loaned him a scarf to wear for the next few days, a scarf that hovered about his nose and mouth in a never-ending ethereal dance, but he should have known the twins were too observant not to notice the wound underneath.

“The guards didn’t hit me,” Voronwë told Elros gently. “That was . . . an accident.”

Elros and Elrond nailed Voronwë to the wall with their stares before meeting each other’s gaze and nodding in silent agreement. “When we grow up,” Elros announced, “we’re going to protect you just like Prince Maedhros and Papa protect us. We’ll live in a big white castle on the beach, and you’ll collect seashells for us all day, and you’ll tell us stories at night, and we’ll make sure nothing bad ever happens to you or Annaiel ever again!”

“Sounds lovely,” Voronwë said, fighting to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. The thought of living on a beach and collecting seashells all day felt like a particularly cruel twist of fate. Annaiel focused very intently on the fringe of her shawl. 

Voronwë cleared this throat. “I think it’s about time for your secret lessons,” he whispered to the twins with a conspiratorial grin.

“Oh, you don’t need to keep them so secret anymore,” Elros said proudly. “Papa says he already knows about them.”

Annaiel nearly dropped her shawl. “What?!” she gasped.

“Papa has started teaching us Sindarin too,” Elrond explained. “He says Maedhros is mad about the Forest King’s treason, but that we still need to learn the language. But he also said to let you all keep teaching us too. He said it was clever and it would make you feel important.”

Voronwë felt the blood rise through his cheeks, and, to judge by Annaiel’s blotchy face, she was just as furious as he was.

“We’re just saying you don’t need to worry about them finding out anymore!” Elros hastily added, picking up that somehow the wrong thing had been said.

Annaiel recovered first. “If you are learning Sindarin formally, you can now advance to more complex studies. We will now practice signing the histories of Gondolin and Doriath while you are in your quarters.”

Elrond shifted uncomfortably. “Papa says he doesn’t want us knowing about that yet.”

“It’s the new secret,” Voronwë answered stiffly. The twins’ eyes lit up with glee.

“Voronwë still needs your leave to go forth on his mission, my lords,” Annaiel said, speaking the Sindarin words slowly so the children could keep up.

Elrond leaned forward in his bed, rubbing up and down the base of his left ring finger. It had become a nervous habit of late. “You can leave,” he said seriously, “but you have to wait until the dogwood tree in the courtyard blooms. You could freeze, otherwise.”

Voronwë wanted to pull his hair out. They knew very well he could survive in the wilderness in winter. “That will take weeks,” he argued as patiently as he could. “I should leave as soon as possible.”

Elrond considered this. “Wait until seven weeks from now,” he finally said. “You should wait until then.” There was a weight to the words, like the echo of a deep gong. Voronwë recognized prophecy when he heard it and sighed, relenting.

“I will wait the seven weeks,” he said with a groan. Elros clapped his hands with delight and Elrond smiled, burrowing himself deeper into his blankets against the chill. Voronwë was reminded again that they were only half-elves and felt the cold far worse than any elf should. He unfastened his cloak and tucked it in around Elrond’s shivering shoulders.

***

Voronwë stalked through the gloomy hallways of Amon Ereb, the looming shadows parting in the wake of the guards’ lit torches. They’d caught him as he’d led his horse to the gates, passing beneath the bare stalks of a budding dogwood tree, his boots sinking into the muddied courtyard. It had been seven weeks to the day since he had received permission from Elrond to leave, and he still had his riding gloves in his hand and his cloak draped over his arm when he was escorted into the main hall.

Maedhros and Maglor were not ones for ornamentation. There was no raised dais, only a plain wooden table at the head of a long room lined with lacquered wooden benches. Nothing relieved the smooth stone floors, but the brothers had allowed themselves a few tapestries of the great deeds of the Noldor, tapestries that seemed to move and ripple under their own power in the meager torchlight. The brothers stood side by side before the great table, Maglor studying a letter in his gloved hands. Maedhros clutched a satchel, knotted with leather cord, to his chest. Voronwë could hear metal clinking inside.

The guards bowed to the princes and then left Voronwë alone, locking the doors to the main hall behind them. Voronwë swallowed but steadied himself, squeezing his riding gloves. “I thought you told me I was no prisoner.”

“Indeed, you are not, but you do seem to be an ungracious guest.” Maglor set down the letter with a dry smile. “You weren’t even going to tell us you were leaving?”

“I assumed my lords had already informed you,” Voronwë snapped.

“They had,” Maglor assured him. “But it’s not often we can send missives to Sirion and its surrounding regions. In addition to your visit to Cirdan, you’re also going to run an errand for us.”

“What errand would this be?” Voronwë spat.

If Maglor noticed the tone, he ignored it, but Voronwë did note Maedhros’ sudden tension and drooped his shoulders a bit as he tried to soothe himself back into serenity.

“It’s a small errand,” Maglor continued, waving one hand towards the west. “After you visit Cirdan, you will deliver this letter,” he said, folding the paper in his hands into a neat packet, “and this satchel to High King Gil-Galad on Tol Sirion, with our best wishes.”

“That will add some time to my journey,” Voronwë warned.

“Not so much as you might think. Cirdan runs ferries every few days, so we’re told.”

Voronwë reflected upon it and found no real reason to not deliver the brothers’ messages. In any case, the king would likely gain some comfort in knowing the fates of his youngest kin. Voronwë nodded. “I will take them, then,” he agreed, “but I would know what gift you have for the High King, and why you’ve not yet touched that letter with your bare hands.”

Maglor paused a moment, staring at him in confusion, before bursting into a laughter as sweet as wild strawberries. “Do you think we would poison our sweet cousin, the son of my brother’s dearest friend?” He plucked off one of his gloves and let the folded letter rest neatly in his palm. “You must forgive my cold-natured skin, I’m afraid, little lost sailor.”

“As for the satchel, it belonged to the High King’s father,” Maedhros sneered. “And if I find it was not delivered safely to its destination, I’ll have you beaten as a traitor in front of Annaiel.”

Voronwë felt as though he’d swallowed a hole, a hole that expanded until the void pressed up against his skin and out of his pores. A bead of sweat stung his eye and he blinked it away. “I will deliver it and return with any messages from Cirdan or the King. I swear it.”

“Are you sure you want to swear?” Maglor asked in a singsong voice.

Realizing what he had just said, Voronwë blanched. “I will be on my way the moment you release me, and I will return as soon as I am able. With any news I deem worthy of your ears.”

“You’ll do better than that,” Maglor replied. “You’ll tell us everything. Everything you see and hear. You will not withhold any information from us, nor will you attempt to mislead us.”

“We don’t expect you to paint a rosy picture of us, or of your time here,” Maedhros offered with a wide, toothy smile. “Even though, if I do say so myself, we’ve been perfect hosts, and quite tolerant of your and Annaiel’s little tantrums. Actually,” he continued, tossing his red hair out of his face, “if you tell Cirdan I’ve struck you, he’ll probably welcome you like the kicked pup you are.”

Voronwë wet his lips. Maglor had placed the letter on the table and now held the Fëanorians’ royal seal loosely in his fingers. Dried wax fell from the star pattern as he absently spun it in his hands.

“I – I am of course grateful for your forbearance, and for allowing us to remain with the children. I apologize for any offense, my lords. I will deliver your letter and your gift to Gil-Galad at Tol Sirion and report all news back to you as you have instructed.” A small part of Voronwë’s mind rebelled, wondering if he had the courage to sail West after all, and escape this madness, but that would mean leaving the twins behind. He could go to Tol Sirion and beg Gil-Galad for help for both himself and Annaiel, but that would mean war, and what would that do for the twins? Doom one way or the other.

“We know you will,” Maedhros said. “You’re a glutton for punishment, after all. Part of me has always wondered if you don’t just want to die. I can relieve you of your misery upon your return. Consider it a reward for a job well done.”

Voronwë flushed. “I do NOT want to die!” he hissed. “You don’t have the ignorance of mortal men. You know that even for us death is the death of someone, regardless of what may happen West of the Sea. I want to see Valinor as THIS Voronwë. I want to see Elemmakil as THIS Voronwë. I’m rather fond of him, and I don’t want to stop being him. Also,” he added, “I suppose I want to throw it back in Ulmo’s face – the fact that I’m not dead yet after all.”

Maedhros laughed at that, a real laugh. Maglor kicked his brother in the leg and then turned a pleasant smile on Voronwë. “Then you will be grateful for our protection on the road, and we will be grateful for our confidence in your word. Brother, if you will.”

Voronwë considered himself a fighter. He had slain dragons, balrogs, and some of the finest soldiers the Noldor had to offer. He had faced sea monsters and orcs and his fellow sailors in friendly matches on the decks of ships. None of it mattered when Maedhros struck him from the side with the speed and strength of a charging stag. Gasping, Voronwë felt his gloves and cloak drop from his nerveless grasp. He flailed, lashing out with his feet and fists, but couldn’t manage to tease even a grunt out of Maedhros as the prince dragged him by his hair to the table and slammed him down face-first into sanded oak.

Voronwë gasped and surged up against Maedhros’ grip, to no effect. The prince grabbed both of his wrists in a grip made of steel and raised them above his head as Maglor peeled away Voronwë’s coat and undershirt, running his hands along the elf’s bare skin. Voronwë thought about screaming. Yet who would answer? 

“Peace, Voronwë,” Maglor scolded. “We aren’t going to kill you. Be grateful – this mark will protect you from unfriendly eyes on the road. It will also, of course, draw you back here when you are done with your task and make sure you are obedient when reporting your results to us. You’ve always been such a good little servant,” Maglor said tenderly, brushing a strand of hair away from Voronwë’s cheek. “I’m sure this isn’t strictly necessary, but you certainly do have a lot of pluck. Gondolin didn’t know what a catch it had when it threw you out, did it?”

Maglor hummed against the edge of the royal seal, and Voronwë watched in horror as magic sparked inside of it, the pattern of the star of Fëanor glowing the pale blue of will o’ the wisps. “Peace, Voronwë,” Maglor said again. “This is not going to hurt.”

It didn’t, to Voronwë’s surprise, but he felt the deluge of Maglor’s magic seeping into him as the seal was pressed into his lower back. It tightened closely about him like a collar, and the singer now held the leash on the other end. He could feel Maglor’s presence tickling at the back of his mind, a half-heard bar of music whispering along the edges of his thoughts. He wondered, dismally, if this is what it felt like for Tuor when Ulmo’s presence first touched his soul.

“We learned our lesson with Ulfang, you see,” Maglor said, tucking Voronwë’s shirt back in and pulling down his coat. “Better to be assured of loyalty instead of merely promised it. I’ll remove the mark when you return.”

Voronwë couldn’t feel any sort of raised scar, but knew that the pattern of the seal must be on his skin, nonetheless. Maedhros released him and didn’t bother resisting when Voronwë pushed him away, snatching up his cloak and gloves. “I have your leave to go?” he spat.

Maglor held out both the letter and the satchel. “Of course. Good journey, and safe travels to your destination. I look forward to your report.”

Voronwë took both letter and satchel and waited to see whether Maglor’s spell would force him to bow to the brothers. It didn’t. “Never before has any lord needed to curse me to ensure my obedience or loyalty. It was given freely.”

“Ah, but never before have you had masters as cruel as we,” Maedhros said, and to Voronwë he looked and sounded suddenly weary, his skin pale and his back stooped. The cobweb of scars on his face pulsed and seethed as the elf prince worked his jaw. “After this, you may go where you will. Find someone better than us to serve, Last Mariner. Or sail West and forget us altogether.”

“But do tell Cirdan we cursed you,” Maglor said brightly. “He’s certain to love you then.”

Voronwë didn’t bother speaking to another soul as he stormed out of the castle gates. He urged his horse on, its black hair glistening with the light of both the silmaril and a crescent moon. Despite the promise of spring, his foggy breath wreathed his head like smoke.

Maglor’s magic was a gentle but insistent pull on his spine, and he squirmed in the saddle to try to settle it. There had to be a way, he mused to himself, to break the prince’s hold on him. Maglor would know right away, of course, but he refused to return to their side without all of his faculties about him. He also seriously doubted Maglor would remove the spell when he returned. There would be another errand, and another, until the brothers had run out of uses for him. And what then?

He shivered, more from fury than from fear. He had lived a life under the thumb of one powerful lord already, a pawn in the games of a manipulative force. He would rather live by the sea all his days than endure it again, than to see Tuor’s family pulled into it again. He squared his shoulders. Cirdan would know what to do.

He didn’t stop until Amon Ereb had plunged below the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> I LIVE!!! I thought about sending Voronwë to his happy ending in Valinor but, honestly, this just felt more interesting. I'm playing a little fast and loose with timing, but I'm hoping that names and places are all correct. It is best to read this after reading "The Sea Among the Stones."


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